Eyes scanned back and forth, patiently, not hurrying or narrowing in on any one spot yet, instead sinking into the landscape and looking for the break in the pattern. He recognized the technique, and was thankful he’d taken the time to break up the outline of his crossbow with scrim and little bits of vegetation. Straight lines and too-regular curves drew the gaze in the wilderness.
OK, that’s extreme range, but I’m a really good shot and there’s not much wind, so I could almost certainly put one through the center of mass . . . of course, there’s the armor, those brigandines are nearly as good as a solid breastplate . . . and the dogs would go for me . . . nah, better be cautious, this is an intelligence mission not a hot op; I’m trying to get away, not fight.
His training had emphasized focusing on the mission. And that aggression was a means, not an end. Those were the differences between an army and a neobarb mob.
At last she made a short chittering noise that would have passed as forest background if he hadn’t been watching her, and a man in the same gear appeared. Cole blinked; he hadn’t seen the second Mackenzie at all, and it made him very glad he hadn’t chanced a long-range shot at the first one while someone unseen was covering her. The man was slender and of medium height, looking wiry-strong, with a brown mustache and short chin-beard. The rest of his head was apparently shaven, except for a lock at the back that spilled down in a braid. His face was painted as well, though more lightly, and somehow looked astonishingly like a cat’s, and there was a tuft of gray-brown fur in the clasp of his . . . Cole blinked . . . Scots bonnet! That was what it was called!
These people are seriously strange. Those knights and castles and things they’ve got out west are bad enough, but this?
There was nothing eccentric about the way he quartered the ground, though, with the dogs trotting at his heel and his gaze scanning the pine-duff and old aspen leaves ahead of him. Occasionally he would go to a knee and peer more closely. Cole recognized that too—an experienced tracker looking for sign. He lay and sweated and thought he heard an almost entirely inaudible snigger from his prisoner.
I don’t suppose it matters what they do with the head after they kill me . . . I should be able to take out whoever stumbles across me first, but that’s one bolt and I can’t reload as fast as an archer can shoot . . . they’re too far apart to shoot one and rush the other with my sword before they get me and there are the dogs but maybe if I’m really fast and even more lucky . . . and if this time there’s nobody in reserve I can’t see yet . . .
They could just be not finding him; he was good at concealment. Or it could be a trap. At last the newcomer turned to the woman on the rock and shook his head. They gestured at each other—military sign language, he thought—and then she nodded. Cole forced himself not to blow out his breath in relief as she took an oxhorn slung at her waist and put the silver-mounted mouthpiece to her lips.
Huuuuu-huuuuu-huuurrrrr!
The sound was surprisingly deep, and it seemed to resonate in his chest for a moment, but it meant they thought nobody was around. It brought a dozen more kilted archers loping through the woods. He lost sight of some as they continued on past the coffin-tight hiding place and the rest shook out into a skirmish line. If they didn’t walk right into him and they assumed this area was clear afterwards, he had a good chance of staying hidden until they all went on about their business. And after they’d checked the area once they probably wouldn’t be back. There was a lot of forested mountain around here.
Go away, he thought, clenching his stomach muscles in an involuntary attempt to project the thought that was half a formless prayer. Nothing interesting here, you gave it a once-over, much more important stuff elsewhere, move along now. . . .
One halted, a dark-skinned woman with her hair in a multitude of tight braids tipped with little silver balls.
That’s not a bow she’s carrying, he realized as she came closer. That’s a staff.
A six-foot length of carved rowan-wood, topped by a circle flanked by two silver crescents.
What the hell is she doing? That’s not a weapon. Focus, Cole, focus, you’re missing something.
He narrowed his attention. Through the sight he could see the dark woman blink and frown, looking like someone trying to remember or catch a nagging thought at the edge of perception. She halted and drew a circle in the forest floor with the butt of the staff and inscribed lines within the figure in some complex pattern of angles and curves. Then she began to spin the staff, first over her head, then touching the end down with what looked like careful precision on the figures she’d drawn. The circle on its end was a disk of silver-rimmed crystal, and it caught the morning sun in a flickering glitter as she whirled the wood at arm’s length again. After a moment she began to walk outward in a spiral, still turning the staff wrist-over-wrist like a quarterstaff.
What the hell . . .
It all made no sense that he could see, but there was something fascinating about the movement of the staff. The way it cast sun-blinks, the rhythmic intensity of it, the swooping grace, the humming song that went within it. Moments later he realized she actually was singing. A wandering tune, hauntingly strange, yet somehow reminding him of how his mother sang while she was working the churn or getting the harvest supper ready . . .
“Sleep of the Earth of the land of Faerie
Deep is the lore of Cnuic na Sidhe;
Hail be to they of the Forest Gentry
Pale dark spirits help us see!”
So soothing, not scary at all. She took something from a pouch at her belt and held up her bunched fingers, blowing across them sharply like someone getting rid of flour or cat-hair. He sighed and let his head drift downward, onto the deep pine-duff, cool and damp and friendly, comfortable as his own bed in the attic up under the roof on the farm as the song went on . . .
“White is the dust of the state of dreaming
Light is the mixture to make one still
Dark is the powder of Death’s redeeming;
Mark that but one pinch can kill—”
Something hard rapped him on the forehead, just under the hood of his battle-smock. He started awake with a strangled yell and an icy thrust of fear as the butt of the staff withdrew, reflex sending his hands snatching up his crossbow . . .
. . . and then freezing at the glitter on the honed edges of arrowheads pointing at him. Six arrows, drawn past the jaw, ready to nail him to the ground.
It had to be his imagination that he heard the thick yew staves of the longbows creaking, but the barred-fang growl of the dogs was like millstones turning as they crouched and stared at his throat with fixed intent. The dark woman was leaning on her staff and panting a little as if with hard effort. She blew out a breath and grinned down at him, her full lips curving away from white teeth.
“Who’s the naughty laddie, then?” she said, in an accent that held a strong pleasant burbling lilt. “So, would you be puttin’ your hands on your head the now, or would you rather be pierced, perforated and sent off to the Summerlands for a wee bit of a rest before you try life again?”
Shit, he thought. So much for my glorious military career and a general’s stars by forty. Shit twice and on toast.
“Your choice,” one of the archers added helpfully.
“I surrender,” he said, laying down the crossbow, coming up onto both knees and clasping his hands across the top of his head.
“Now that’s a sensible lad,” she said cheerfully, extending her hand so Alyssa could stand and move out of the line of fire. “Better not to kill without strong need, for aren’t we all alike children of the Mother? Merry meet, Lady Alyssa; who would this likely youngster you’re travelling with be?”
“I’m Cole Salander, Private First Class, United States Army, serial number A3F77032,” he said sourly, staring ahead.
“Toss the sword belt, number-on-a-list-man,” one of the archers said. “Undo it with your left hand, mind, and keep the other on your head.”
He u
nbuckled it and did, which put his sword, bowie, utility knife and hatchet out of reach; he supposed it was a compliment of sorts that they were being cautious about getting close to him while he was armed. Another Mackenzie extended the horn-sheathed tip of his yew stave and snagged the sling of his crossbow, dragging it cautiously away before firing the bolt into the ground with a whap and examining the weapon with professional curiosity.
“And is there any more cutlery, ironmongery or things of a sharp and pointy or otherwise harmful nature?” the first bowman said. “Produce, man, and no monkeyshines.”
He was a little older than the others, with a cropped blond beard and only a few touches of war paint and no weird haircut except for it being a lot longer than was common for men in Idaho, his thick yellow braid tied into a clubbed bunch at the back of his head. A piece of wolf-tail dangled along with it. A thin collar of twisted gold lay around his neck, the ends fashioned into the heads of wolves meeting muzzle-to-muzzle.
“Steady now, boyo, and don’t try to befool us,” he said, his voice hard. “That would not put us in a better mood. You get a whap alongside the head for every one we find when we search.”
Cole had two holdout knives, one in his boot and a little one sewn into the jacket behind his neck. He tossed the blades and his sentry-removal wire garrote and blackjack after the crossbow, removing them from their hiding places with two fingers and great caution but no undue waste of time. He didn’t know how long they could hold the draw on those heavy bows and didn’t want to find out if it meant fingers slipping off the string and a thirty-six-inch arrow heading his way at several hundred feet per second.
What the fuck happened? he thought, dazed and unresisting amid the painted faces grim or grinning. How the hell did I go to sleep with an enemy patrol all around me? Please tell me I’m not that much of a noob screwup, God. Or . . . did she do something to me?
That was almost as scary as the arrowheads, more so if you thought about it for a minute. Pilot Officer Alyssa Larsson was snickering now. The Clan warriors took the tension off their bows, though several kept their arrows on the string until he’d been quickly and expertly searched. There were a few happy chortles and whoops as they found and appropriated the more handy items in his light field pack as well as his stash of silver coins.
Yeah, OK, you’re happy, he thought with resigned irritation.
That was one of the perks of capturing someone; everyone knew the (unofficial) rules. They left him his sleeping bag and some of the really essential gear, and conscientiously returned the personal letters and family pictures after a glance to make sure what they were, which meant they were playing by the rules. His paybook, map and the other official documents went into a sack. Alyssa took back the map, papers, knife and compass he’d appropriated from her.
The wad of green paper money they tossed back with a jocular suggestion that when it ran out he could just use leaves and grass like anybody else. They had a point, with the way prices had gone haywire since the President bought it at the Horse Heaven Hills. His last letter from home had cautiously mentioned that people were swapping a lot again, which said volumes in a way the censor couldn’t object to.
“Merry meet,” Alyssa said to the Mackenzies.
The senior archer looked at her, the splinted arm and the spectacular and now colorful bruises on her face, then back at Cole. His eyes narrowed.
“Merry meet, and merry part again, Lady Alyssa,” he said. “Now, would you want the whole corp of this one to come back with you still walking upon the ridge of the earth, or just the ugly head of him in a bag, to be pickled in cedar-oil and nailed above your door?”
Alyssa chuckled. Cole didn’t think the suggestion was funny at all, and decided he disliked her sense of humor. Despite her lack of accent she seemed to know a fair bit about Mackenzies.
“No, he’s been a perfect gentleman, Sèitheach,” she said. “Strictly according to the laws of honorable war.”
He nodded and took the hand off his swordhilt and looked grimly at Cole, who was trying hard to hide his relief.
“Well, and doesn’t that demonstrate the Law of Threefold Return, boyo?” he said. To Alyssa: “Where’s your machine?”
“Twenty-odd miles that way, most of it up and down, as of three days ago,” she said, pointing northeastward. “What’s left of it, which isn’t much. Thought I could catch an updraft but hit still air instead and I used a couple of trees and a boulder as a landing strip. He came along while I was still dizzy. I’d have been in a really bad way otherwise. I was upside down and couldn’t get at the belts because of the arm and there was a grizzly sniffing around and I don’t think it was on my side. I’m a Bearkiller, after all!”
“What happened to the bear?”
“We ate some of it.”
She cocked an eye at Cole. “He put two bolts into it and then took off like a squirrel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man run up a rock face so fast. Then he shot it dead while it was trying to climb up and get him.”
“More of them?” the blond archer said.
He ignored chuckles from his followers. Several of them nodded respectfully at Cole, and a few even murmured something like bravely done, but the Boisean’s snap judgment was that their commander was a notable hardcase.
“He didn’t say, but from the way he acted no, not within a couple of days’ travel minimum. Be careful with him. He knows his way around the woods and he’s quick. No fool, either.”
The dark woman with the staff used it to swat the bowman in charge on the backside before she added sharply:
“And taking heads is forbidden. That’s geasa for all the Clan as you know perfectly well, Sèitheach Johnston Mackenzie. It’s even geasa for McClintocks, the which is saying a great deal!”
“Well, I was just jokin’, so I was,” the man replied a little sheepishly.
“No you weren’t, Sèitheach-me-lad. Not about taking the head, at least, if not the pickling and nailing.”
Gurk! Cole thought, restraining an impulse to take one of his hands down and rub the back of his neck with it. OK, she’s a witch.
There were rumors about that, too. He hadn’t believed them until now. Of course, there were also rumors about the Cutters, the Church Universal and Triumphant, and what their High Seekers could do. Officially they were supposed to be friends and allies who just absolutely loved the reconstituted United States centered in Boise and wanted to bring their stamping ground out in Montana back under the Constitution. Cole most certainly didn’t believe that. He’d met a couple, and the only way they loved anyone else was the way Cole loved a ham sandwich with mustard and a pickle. Witness the way their cavalry bugged out at the Horse Heaven Hills when everything went to shit, and left the infantry-heavy US forces in a world of hurt. Two of his brothers hadn’t come back from that fight, and nobody knew what had happened to them.
So OK, the westerners really do have witches. But it sounds like she’s a good witch. Anyone who’s against chopping off my head is pretty damned good as far as I’m concerned. Christ, this all just gets better and better, doesn’t it? “Sorry, sir, they took me prisoner ’cause a witch cast a spell on me, which is why I went to sleep, really it is, honest.” That’s sure going to go over well, assuming I ever get to report in. Sergeant Halford will ask me if their dogs ate my homework, too.
“And don’t jest on things the Goddess-on-Earth made geis!” the woman continued. “We may be Gaels, but this isn’t Erin in the ancient times and you’re not the Hound of Ulster nor yet one of the Red Branch.”
“Yes, fiosaiche,” the man named Sèitheach muttered.
She frowned. “I . . . there’s something strange about this one. That’s why he caught at me like a wrong note in a song. I’d not have found him otherwise, not if this were just a matter of humankind. Yet I can’t say precisely what. It’s not that he’s a banewreaker himself, I do not think.”
“What should we be doing with him, then?”
“Why, I’m but a f
iosaiche,” she said blandly, stepping back. “You being the bow-captain here, it’s your decision, not a matter of brehon law. War’s for a warrior, not a priestess or a foreseer.”
A couple of the archers grinned and Alyssa snickered. Then the fiosaiche started looking at her arm, probing gently along the splint. She hissed slightly and her eyes went blank at the pain.
The witch-woman nodded. “Thin break, right enough. It should heal well, and that’s a good job of splinting. Provided you get some rest and don’t put any strain on it!”
When the bow-captain—
Whatever the hell that is. Some sort of rank, probably. I think this guy’s a platoon sergeant or something like that.
—snapped orders the Clan archers went on grinning, but they obeyed promptly too and without argument. Presumably a fiosaiche was something like a chaplain or a political officer or both. Though she looked a lot nicer than any of the zampolits—what were officially called morale officers—he’d ever met.
“We’ll sweep along the river until dark and lie out tonight, forbye there may be some of this one’s friends about,” the bow-captain said. “Remember how well he was hidden. The next one may be more twitchy with his trigger, so keep an eye out for sign unless you want a bolt in the back. Caillech—”
That was the girl with the wings painted on her face.
“—you and Talyn—”
The guy who’d been covering her and bossing the dogs.
“—take the lady and the prisoner back to camp. You’re up to the walk, Lady? It’s a fair bit of a way and nothing but deer-tracks, and those of an exceeding steepness.”
“That’s Pilot Officer, bow-captain; I’m no lady among Mackenzies. And it’s walk or crawl, isn’t it? War isn’t a hunting trip. I broke my arm, not a leg.”
The man named Talyn nodded to Cole as he took his hands down and got to his feet. It felt strange not to have a sword at his waist or a crossbow in his arms, like being naked in public. The Mackenzie’s voice was not unkindly as he pointed southwest with his longbow.
The Given Sacrifice Page 8